Written by the Victors
by StrawberriesAndTea
Summary: "History is written by the victors." A collection of historically accurate one-shots.
1. Spring, 1788

Salut! This is the beginning of what will eventually be a collection of historically accurate short stories. For me, Hetalia has always been more interesting from a historical standpoint, so here's my shot at capturing some different bits of history featuring all our boys (and girls). Each one will have it's own chapter, and they will probably get longer. I'll do my best to be as accurate as possible. If you have any events you want me to try, let me know, and I'll do my best! Enjoy!

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_Spring, 1788_

Elegant tea cups lightly chinked in a gentle toast before France raised his cup to his lips, savoring the decidedly not-British brew. His eyes roamed out over the harbor which sparkled in the afternoon sun. Massachusetts this time of year was still chilly but spring had a firm hold on the land.

Francis glanced to his companion- in so many ways, another brother, another son. America noticed his gaze and smiled back with the same open honesty he always had. Alfred had filled out again after the war. It was strange, though. To the older nation, Concord and Lexington and Yorktown seemed like just yesterday.

"A lovely day," Francis said. America nodded and waited patiently for the country to continue.

Eventually, France spoke up again. "How is the government?"

"Running like clockwork. It's beautiful." America smiled broadly.

"So many new liberties." France was careful but curious, unable to resist the draw of America's new Constitution. A republic? So much freedom, all without a monarchy? It was unheard of.

"It's what we've been working for. It's no longer just a dream, and Francis, it's working." America turned his blue eyes straight into Francis's darker ones. "It's not impossible, to give representation to every free man, to give each person the rights they were born with. Repression is not the only way."

France turned his gaze back to the harbor. There was such promise in those ideas; ideas his own people were examining with more and more curiosity. Both of their countries were tied tight with these ideas, flowing from minds like Locke and Voltaire. America's ideal was the social contract, a government that worked for the people instead of on top of the people, where religion had little say and the masses decided for the good… his very own Rousseau was the preacher voiced American truths. But how could the people live without a monarch, without a ruler? One couldn't just replace the chosen of God with new slander. What about the estates? What about the clergy? And then, what about his Bourgeoisie, as they had taken to calling themselves, how can they be associated with the same class as peasant farmers?

France shook his head and offered no comment, simply examining the harbor. He had accepted America's suggestion for more trade. It was clear that while America could hardly hope to establish the wealth France already enjoyed in the near future, his natural resources would be a valuable asset, and France almost never declined to expand his markets.

He would have to move carefully when he returned home- his people were quickly forming their own opinions of what defined government, and the majority, he could feel, sided on the side celebrating America's achievements. Those were the opposite of his government. He offered the new country across him all he could, at the moment.

"Congratulations, _cher_."


	2. Winter, 1914

_Winter, 1914_

Trenches, he supposed, were very much like holes. Long holes. And all the people in them were like little rats, running around very much like the real rats that slept beside the warm bodies at night after chowing down on the corpses. He wondered if maybe the rats thought it was nice, down here in the trenches-holes-and maybe they liked the cold and the wet and the decaying humans to eat and the living humans to snuggle with?

England realized this was not a fulfilling train of thought.

What a shame, though. Waiting was boring, all you could do was think, and even with all that time to ponder all he could muse about was the thoughts of rats. He should be applying his mind to something more productive.

Another warm body settled down rather close to his spot, leaning stomach-down on the packed dirt to allow for the tiniest slip of vision of no-man's land, just like he was. England didn't have to turn to recognize the dirty blond hair, or the delicate cheekbones, or the royal blue eyes. He could automatically recognize the aura of another country, another being like himself, and it didn't take much guessing who it was based on the scent of flowers and wine and smoke that somehow, somehow still clung to the man's skin.

"_Angleterre_," France said quietly, in greeting. No one else was around to hear his real name.

"Hullo, Frog," England drawled back, not bothering to look over.

France sighed. "Frog? Here I am, trying to be civil."

England snorted lightly. Civil? Since when had they ever been civil to one another, in the literal centuries they had known each other? But they were just barely balancing on a blade, on the thinnest strip of land between rivalry _(old, used, worn, known)_ and friendship _(practically required, strange, new, but not all that bad, really)_ so he supposed he should return the sentiment. But somehow, after weeks and weeks of nothing to stare at but the sky, England couldn't bring himself to adopt his stiff, gentlemen persona. "Hmm" he offered.

"What's happening over there?"

England snorted again. "Nothing much, not that I can tell. The same as the past few weeks. It's late on both sides." He was right; dusk was falling rapidly and a very faint glow could be seen from the German trenches, cast from the few candles dare lit. The same glow could be seen from their own. "The fighting's done for the night. Like normal."

"Normal now." The Frenchman's tone was quiet.

England knew what he was referring to. The past few months had been a very strange situation of almost gentlemanly warfare: no shelling during mealtimes, no shelling at night, and the shelling had been especially sparse this last week of December. It was unnatural, yes, but no one could bring themselves to fight to their full level. Everyone was stuck in these holes-_trenches_, everyone could only stare at the sky and write home and shoo away the rats. Everyone was in the same boat, even the enemies, who were still people. But England knew that soon, things would change. He was old enough, experienced enough, to sense the change even if he could not identify what it would be. All England knew was that now, his troops and his people back home still considered the human beings across no-man's land as human beings. England had a feeling that would change soon, and frankly, it was worrying. "You're right."

France glanced over sharply. It was strange to hear his greatest rival admit he was right. Throughout history, they had a slight tradition of doing things the exact opposite. He decided to share something in return. "I'm worried."

England huffed a sigh, turning to meet the blue eyes. For a long moment, leaning against their muddy trench-hole-_home_, they looked at each other. Not enemies, but not quite used to being friends, even though their monarchs were being civil and their militaries were planning together and their people were dying together. _Well_, England thought ruefully, his face relaxing a bare fraction, _this is okay. It only took the world's biggest war for this to happen, and God only knows what's coming, but this is okay._ "Me too." He broke the eye contact and turned to look over the scarred earth (scars that had showed up on France, he knew) towards the enemy.

Francis turned away, face creaking into a half-smile, thoughts mirroring Arthur's. He knew it too, knew they were both thinking the same things, feeling the same things, worried about the same things. "I have no one to celebrate Christmas with next week."

England, stubborn, stubborn man that he was, did not move. "I have a cigar and a packet of dried fruit."

France smiled.


	3. January, 1919

_January, 1919_

Germany sighed.

He was completely exhausted. War, and the loss of such, was so tiring. He wondered idly how Prussia and the other older nations stood it all the time. Briefly, his thoughts flickered to France and England, who had once fought a war for _literally over a century_. But then his thoughts wandered back into the present, and once he realized his thoughts had been _wandering_ while he slumped over his desk, he shook himself briskly.

His poise must not drop even in the face of defeat. He knew this.

Tomorrow, he would travel to just outside Paris, escorted by ministers and officials and various other members of his government, to wait for the Allies to agree on a peace treaty. _Wait on the Allies to agree on a peace treaty._ He wasn't even allowed an initial say. How humiliating. And it would take them weeks, he knew, and all the while he would be stuck in a metaphorical cage outside of Paris, since a certain infuriating blond nation refused him entrance until the treaty draft was ready. Weeks spent waiting while other countries and their leaders decided how much to take from him in compensation, how much to degrade him. France would be out for blood, probably England too, and he could most likely kiss Alsace-Lorraine goodbye. He wouldn't even get a say at first.

_**Humiliating**_.

Germany growled wordlessly under his breath, leaning his head on one hand and staring down at reports detailing military spends and losses. He had been so close, so, so close. Or, scratch that, he had thought he had come close. Once Brest-Litovsk was signed, oh, he'd thought he'd done it. Russia _surrendered_. Russia (who, admittedly, had just lost his monarchy, had no stable government, and was undergoing wave after wave of revolution) had surrendered to _him_. Russia hadn't even flinched when France and his tiny little leader invaded, ages ago. No, Russia hadn't even met with Napoleon, and for God's sake Germany had made Russia _not only_ surrender, _not only_ give up territory, but admit the independence of Poland. That-bringing Russia down to that level-was a huge victory.

Looking back, Germany realized how foolish and… and _immature_ he had been, celebrating Russia's defeat with alcohol and promises to crush the Allies with his troops and technology and willpower.

And the sad thing was Germany did.

For a little while, at least, he made headway and broke the awful stalemate of the trenches. And just when victory was in his reach…

Germany growled again and dug his palms into his face.

Damn them. Damn the Allies, damn America with all his fresh troops (right in time to lap up the glory of war and none of the repercussions), damn that **infernal** pox…

(…and even though he should probably be damning a majority of his civilians, for undoubtedly they had really caused problems and probably lost him the war, he simply couldn't find it in his heart to get so angry at his people, even if half of them gave up far too soon.)

The door to his study suddenly opened and Germany glanced up sharply, ready to snap at whatever human dared to disobey his strict orders, but instead saw his brother.

Excellent. On top of everything, here was Prussia, probably ready to berate his younger sibling about how much he had screwed up the war, and it certainly didn't help Germany's unusual and rather overwhelming cocktail of emotions that Prussia looked absolutely exhausted-dark smudges under his sunken-in eyes, pale skin almost translucent, eyes dull red instead of glowing, and sporting the various injuries that appeared on a nation as a result of war. The guilt and shame must have been oozing out of the blond man, for when Prussia crossed the room, he offered none of his usual silver-tongued wit or cutting commentary. When the space between them was almost closed, Germany could take it no longer and buried his face back into his fingers.

Blind now, Germany didn't expect hands to settle on his tense shoulders and start to rub. This wasn't a normal Prussia thing to do, but Germany was grateful for the soothing pressure nonetheless.

Any other person would have taken Prussia's silence and shoulder massage as an invitation to let go of all the pent-up feelings collected after losing a war. But Germany was not any other nation. Instead, the blond did nothing. Prussia released his shoulders and moved to Germany's side, lifting his head with calloused fingers and placing a gentle, lingering kiss on his forehead.

Germany sighed. It was the sigh at the end of an unsuccessful journey when the mind was utterly exhausted and the body had no space but to agree.

Blue eyes then met red, and both brothers stared seriously at each other for a minute. There were no accusations. There were no tears or anguish for their loss. There were no false hopes and fake promises. Tomorrow began the journey of official defeat, and it was going to be awful. The only promise they offered to one another, the only sympathy and the only encouragement, was that they would do it together.

(…and Germany decided he didn't imagine the moment when Prussia's eyes had gone soft and shone with admiration, pride, and love for his little brother. Later, he would allow himself to smile. But not now.)

Now was time for both of them to pack, and with a brisk nod and a straightening of spines and shoulders, they left to prepare themselves for the final step of war.


End file.
